


Moving On

by Deannie



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode: s03e23 Sentinel Too, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-13
Updated: 2001-12-13
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair died at the end of season three. This is what happened to everyone else...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

"Just let it go, baby," Henri was whispering sadly. "Just let it go..."

Simon felt the arms beneath his hands strain against him, and could almost hear Jim's unspoken response.  _Like HELL I'll let it go!_  Simon agreed completely, but he still had the objectivity to be realistic.

Unfortunately.

"No..." Jim moaned, still straining toward his partner. "Oh, God... No." The Sentinel turned desperate eyes to Simon and the older man hung his head.

"You can't do anything for him, Jim."

As if the captain's words were a signal, Jim relaxed. Caught by surprise, Simon and Henri suddenly looked down to find the Sentinel sitting on his rear, dazed, staring at the body on the ground by the fountain.

 _Nouns_  Simon's mind conjured up uselessly.  _Nouns are good. Nice general-sounding ones. Not like "Blair" or "Jim"... The body... Just the body..._

While Simon's mind was blathering on, Henri Brown had knelt beside his fellow detective, trying to impart what comfort he could.

"Jim? Come on, man."

Jim flinched at the words, but didn't take his eyes from his partner's body. The EMTs had started loading it onto a gurney now, and still, the detective stared.

"Come on, Ellison," Brown whispered, a hand going out to the older detective's shoulder in sympathy. "Why don't we get up off the grass here, man?"

 

There was no answer, and Henri suddenly wondered if there ever would be again. He kept his hand where it was, and followed Jim's gaze to watch the gurney being raised up so they could roll it over to the ambulance. When it went, Jim's eyes didn't follow, and Henri began to worry in spite of himself. A look up at Captain Banks, whose eyes had, sadly, painfully, locked on to... the body... told the detective that he might not get much help from that quarter, either.

"Come on, Jim," Megan pleaded gently, dropping down to kneel on Jim's other side. "You've got to help us out a little here, you know?"

Brown flashed her a grateful smile as she helped him drag the shattered man to his feet. Simon's eyes had closed, Brown noticed, and the tears that ran slowly from under the captain's lids were unapologetic.

And so were Henri's.

* * *

A week after that horrible day at the fountain, Naomi Sandburg buried her son, surrounded by a group of friends so diverse, they did the anthropologist's memory proud. Old hippies, young hippies, cops, professors, and poets--they all had stories of how Blair Sandburg had changed their lives.

And, off to the side, hiding, stood Jim Ellison. He hadn't planned to come to the ceremony at all, but three days after Blair's death, Naomi had called him. When he wouldn't answer the phone, she'd gone to the loft, knocking--and not quietly--at the door.

 

"Jim," she'd ordered. "Let me in! We need to talk."

She wasn't dissuaded by the silence that greeted her. It just made her yell louder.

"Do you think this is fair to my son!? Do you think Blair deserved to have you just  _ignore him_  like this!?"

That did it, as she'd known it would. Jim was feeling guilty--and she agreed that he should--so the best way to get to him was through that guilt.

He opened the door, and Naomi's heart broke all over again. Not for her son this time, but for the man he'd left behind. Jim was... dark. His aura, often the bright red of courage--sometimes even orange with joy, when Blair was with him--was now a frightening black, hues of pure anger coursing through it.

He was alone. And Naomi didn't know if he could survive that.

"I don't think you should be here, Naomi," Jim stated dully. He didn't protest when she pushed past him though, and hardly registered her astonishment at the desolation of his once warm little loft. He didn't seem to be seeing anything, in fact... Anything real, at any rate.

There was a long, painful moment of silence before Naomi spoke again. "I deserve to know what happened, Jim."

The self-condemnation she could feel pouring off of him forbade him to answer.

"Did it have to do with your Sentinel senses?"

Her question, calculating in its gentleness, had the effect of rocking Jim back on his heels. When he looked at her, his gaze of shock was met with a smile.

"Blair and I don't keep secrets from each other, Jim," she reminded him. "I've known about you for a long time."

"But you didn't...?"

Naomi shrugged. "You were afraid," she explained simply. "You didn't need to know I knew."

For some reason, her statement seemed to launch Jim into action, and she watched him confusedly as he started to pace.

"He was right," Jim whispered.

Naomi reached out a hand, but Jim ignored it, continuing his dizzy circles.

"Right about what?" she finally asked.

"About me!" Jim returned angrily. "About the Sentinel thing, about me being afraid, about him being the only one who could help me..." He seemed to see Naomi for the first time. "I'm sorry, Naomi," he breathed painfully. "I'm so sorry."

And with that, all the pain and anger and fear he'd been keeping walled behind his anger welled up and drove him to his knees--and to the tears Naomi hoped might cleanse him of at least a little of his pain, as her own tears had helped her the last few days.

 

After the tears, when Jim was spent, Naomi had made him promise her he would come to the memorial. Blair would want him there, she'd said, but standing by a shady tree, hidden from the sun, Jim just knew that she had been wrong.

Blair wouldn't want him here. Blair wouldn't have wanted Jim anywhere near him, had he lived. Jim had thrown him out--of his home, of his life... as far as Blair knew, Jim had thrown him out of his heart, as well. And even as he did it, Jim had known it was the wrong thing to do.

He needed Blair. Needed the power in that calm, quiet voice; the strength of will; the heart of him. But the dream was a warning that his neediness would kill his friend. He needed Blair, but Blair had never needed him. So he pushed him away, for his own good. Because Jim was afraid.

And now, instead of fearing what he might do  _with_  his guide, Jim had to spend the rest of his life fearing what he would do  _without_  him.

* * *

Henri Brown didn't even think Naomi Sandburg could pick him out of a line up, but here she was, walking up to him, smiling gently, as if she should be comforting him, not the other way around.

"Blair liked you a lot," she stated, shaking his hand as the larger group of mourners moved off.

"Thanks, Ms. Sandburg," he replied, a little smile of his own for the memory of this woman's exuberant son. "Hairboy--Blair--was a great kid. We're all going to miss him."

Naomi's gaze seemed to catch on something behind Henri's head, and he turned around, to see Jim heading slowly for his truck.

"Some more than others, huh?" she asked.

Henri nodded sadly. "Jim and Blair were close--closer than most real partners--" he backpedaled quickly at the almost-angry glint in her eyes-- "I mean, partners who are both cops, you know?" They sighed almost in unison.

"They were like brothers, Ms. Sandburg," he finally offered. "Jim's really hurting."

"Naomi," she corrected, giving Henri a hug that seemed to melt away half his grief. "And Jim's not the only one hurting, is he?"

"No, ma'am," Henri agreed, tightening his hold on her. "No, ma'am."

* * *

Here came the moment Simon was dreading. He should have left before now--he could have avoided the whole thing if he'd just left the funeral instead of loitering around, watching people break away from the ceremony, comforting each other, hoping to make it all a little easier for each other.

He'd seen Jim leave almost before the last song was finished. Not  _Amazing Grace,_  no. Not for Naomi's boy. No, it was some folk song--wildly appropriate for Blair... and utterly depressing for Simon.

And now, holding him in place with her gentle eyes as she approached, here came Naomi herself. The one person he didn't  _really_  want to have to face. And the person, he admitted to himself as she hugged him hello, that he wanted to see most in the world.

Short of her son, of course.

"Simon," she began, a small smile coloring her face. "I want to thank you for trying to take such good care of my son." Her eyes misted slightly, as she seemed to feel a pang for what might have been. "Blair really loved you, you know?"

Simon grinned--the kind of grin he would give Blair's antics when the kid wasn't looking. "I was real fond of him, Naomi. I'm so sorry this happened. I wish I could have--"

She stopped him with a glare. "Don't. You couldn't have stopped this. I think..." She paused a long moment, and finally shrugged. "I think there's been enough guilt thrown around, don't you?"

Simon's mind conjured a last vision of Jim, walking silently to his truck, and the police captain sighed.

"Too much guilt," he agreed.

* * *

Life doesn't get back to normal quickly when a police officer dies. It may take weeks for some of his co-workers to get back into the rhythm of things. Some have partners who never do. Blair Sandburg was a cop, for all intents and purposes--at least to the guys in Major Crimes.

So while Jim managed to bounce back, relatively speaking, from Jack Pendergrast's disappearance, no one really expected him to be the same after Blair's death. But no one expected him to quit, either.

 

Simon sat behind his desk, speechless, staring at his best detective as Jim stood at attention.

"Jim...?"

"Effective immediately, sir."

Simon rose, angry. "Don't you 'sir' me, Ellison! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Jim shrugged, and Simon flashed back to the goatee-and-earring-wearing punk that he had partnered with Jack years ago. "I think I need to move on, Simon."

The captain shook his head. "You don't want to do anything of the sort."

Jim finally turned those self-loathing eyes on his captain. "I'm sorry?"

Simon chewed on the cigar he'd had in his hands when Jim walked in. "You don't want to move on. You want to wallow." Jim's jaw twitched in anger, and that only made Simon smirk. "Sure! 'Poor ole Jim. Lost his partner, and he was just never the same.' Ha! What a drama!"

Jim should have been at least  _suspended_  for the punch he landed on his captain's jaw, but Simon just shook it off, and glared in a way that made Jim, finally, see him and the pain that was never, ever going to leave his eyes.

"You aren't the only one who misses him, Ellison."

Simon turned away from the chagrined detective, and looked out his office window at the myriad officers who were trying valiantly to pretend that they hadn't been staring through that glass when Jim threw his punch. Henri, who could shrug off almost anything, could not seem to shrug off Blair's death. It had been two weeks, and the detective hadn't so much as made a joke. Rafe could have been surrounded by the beauties he spent so much of his time chasing, and he wouldn't have cracked a smile. And Joel... Joel had lost a son.

And so, if Simon admitted it, had he himself. They were all hurting. And Jim Ellison--the mighty Jim Ellison, the super Jim Ellison--had decided that he would let his guilt and pain and sense of drama deny everyone the one thing that might get them through this with their souls intact.

"Jim, they're waiting for you to get on with your life."

Ellison snorted. "That's what I'm trying to do, sir."

Simon was so tired. "Getting on with your life means knowing that you and Sandburg shared something that you'll never share with anyone else. Knowing that you'll miss him every goddamn day of your life. Knowing that there's nothing you can do to bring him back." Simon turned, pegging Jim with a candid glare. "And knowing that Blair would  _hate_  to see you throw away your life because of him."

Jim didn't breathe.

"Jim, you know what Sandburg would say if he were here. He'd say you're the Sentinel. You have to protect, fight evil--" he sensed a relaxation in Jim, and went for the laugh-- "wear tights."

What came out of Jim wasn't a laugh--not even close--but it was something.

"Let him go, Jim," Simon whispered, handing back Jim's resignation. "But let it mean something, okay?"

* * *

Later that night, Jim Ellison stood on the balcony of his now re-furnitured loft and fingered the piece of paper.

 _Do you want me to keep doing this, Blair?_  he asked silently.  _Can I? Without you, can I even control this?_

Something in his heart said "you have to try," and so, calmly, he ripped the piece of paper into shreds, and watched them flutter to the ground three stories below. If he concentrated, his Sentinel sight could pick up the words written on the individual scraps.

_resignation_

_immediately_

_Cascade Police_

The first piece to be lost in the windblown trash was  _resignation_ , and somehow, Jim decided that was Blair's doing.

"Okay, pal," the Sentinel whispered, raising his beer in toast. "I'll protect." He took a swig, heading for the door and the warmth of his loft. "I'll fight evil."

He smiled to himself as he closed the doors behind him and breathed, "But if you think I'm wearing tights, you're crazy!"

* * *

_The End_


End file.
